


November Hasn't Come

by docnoctem



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: (to the tune of Just Can't Get Enough) he just can't get it up, Erectile Dysfunction, M/M, as usual the tone of this is more bitter and/or somber than these tags are making it sound, sad men with sad lives: the ongoing saga, standard bummer atmosphere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-19 06:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17596139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/docnoctem/pseuds/docnoctem
Summary: He wants this, he does. It’s just that he’s not 20 anymore. Or 30. Or 40.





	November Hasn't Come

The bed frame rocks but never touches the wall, and Murdoc thinks that says enough.

Stuart’s hands on his hips feel huge and sprawling, the tackiness of his heated palms and the press of his grip giving the illusion they’d near-enough melded to him. He drags Murdoc’s entire body back with his hold, pressing as far inside him as his smaller frame will fit. Murdoc hangs his head, toes curled and breath short, elbows locked uncomfortably to support himself. He focuses on how big Stu’s hands are, how big he feels buried in him, on his want to feel open and fucked and full—he focuses on everything but his own cock, flaccid and unresponsive.

He wants this, he does. It’s just that he’s not 20 anymore. Or 30. Or 40.

He suspects Stu’s having a little more difficulty ignoring it despite Murdoc’s insistence—if he could, he’d be thoroughly spent by now, and he's not exactly known Stu to be a marathon man in the past. His knees have grown achy from the extended length of time he’s been in this position, while Stu’s ragged breath behind him has long crossed the line between exertion and exhaustion. The movement of Stu’s hips is deep and rough but lacking the tempo Murdoc knows he’ll need to finish. He ignores the twinge of protest at the base of his spine and arches his back a bit, spreads his knees further, moans something low from his chest about how he can take it. When Stu’s panting quickens but his pace does not, he steadies himself on one weakened arm and palms at his soft cock. He knows he won’t—he knows he  _can’t_ , not tonight—but he makes an effort for Stu’s benefit.

Stu tries to pump into him faster, the steady pressure making Murdoc drop down onto his forearm and keen, but he’s too low on steam now to keep up the momentum. He peels his hands from Murdoc’s hips and shifts his weight from leg to leg, digging each knee into the bed in turns. The repositioning causes his slicked cock to slip out, and the noise that leaves Murdoc’s mouth purely on reflex isn’t as disappointed as it would normally be; it isn’t as disappointed as he means it to be. A person who didn’t know better might call it  _relieved_.

Stuart should indeed be a person who knows better, but Murdoc both hears and feels the stillness behind him, and he waits a few beats longer than necessary without Stu reentering him before he looks over his shoulder. He takes a quick survey of his face, hair pushed back with sweat and brow line heavy and serious, then drops his gaze to his still-hard cock.

“Ride’s not over yet.” Murdoc assures, winded but short of winded enough.

Stuart’s hands hang at his sides, hesitant, before he brings one to grip the base of his cock. The other splays out wide over the small of Murdoc’s back, and he consciously chooses to lean into it, imploring Stu to continue. Instead, Stuart begins to masturbate, jerking himself at a hurried pace—it’s very evident to Murdoc how ready he is to be finished. He’s begun to feel incapable of supporting the weight on his knees without doing lingering damage and with reluctance he maneuvers onto his side, keeping himself angled toward Stu’s groin and casting the rawest shade of want he knows over his face. His eyes stay trained on the rough stroke of Stu’s hand over his cock, and Stu hunches his long body forward, his own focus set on following Murdoc’s eyeline.

“You like to watch, don’t you?” There’s something disingenuous to the gruffness of his voice, but Murdoc’s chest goes hot all the same. “You like to see me?”

“Yeah. I do.” Tongue wetting his lower lip, Murdoc stifles a groan and steels himself not to wince as he pulls the leg slung sideways a little closer to his torso, opening up as much as he can manage. “I like to feel you more.”

Stu swallows hard and a breathy whine escapes his nose. The hand gripping his cock still moving frantically, he drags the one spanning across Murdoc’s back over the narrow bend of his hip. Stu tilts his head to the side to take in the sight, the image of that almost seeming comical if not for his panting, so hard and heavy Murdoc thinks he can feel his own lungs heaving in rhythm. The rounded joint in his thumb feels clearly outlined digging into the flesh of one arsecheek, and suddenly Stu’s pressing harder against him, spreading Murdoc wider for him. Sharp pain blossoms from Murdoc’s hip, his body’s objection cutting straight through the tightening in his throat. He grunts and just barely jerks, and in a moment Stu’s hovering shadow—and his hand, regretfully—is off him.

When Murdoc’s finally choked down his mortification enough to look at Stuart, he’s struck, as he often is, by the remarkable smallness such a towering man can carry in his face. Stu runs the knobby fingers Murdoc desperately wants bruising into his skin again through his hair, then leaves his hand stalling there atop his head.

With resignation bitter and obvious on his tongue, Murdoc breathes out “S’not happening, is it?”

A beat passes in silence, then two, then three. Stu’s rigid in all the ways he doesn’t want him to be, his breath labored and his face apologetic.

Murdoc rolls onto his back fully, letting his legs fall open to bracket Stuart’s knees. He feels as much as he sees Stu’s eyes go straight to his limp cock, comparatively flat and feeble resting against his stomach, and the apology echoing across his features only becomes louder. There’s an edge of disappointment to his humiliation, a perverse chill tempering the burn of shame at watching Stuart study his waning virility while the younger man stands so erect before him—under fairer circumstances, the feeling of emasculation flooding him would be enough to get him off all on its own. The twitch his cock doesn’t give at being so awash in self-disgust is really the killing blow of the evening.

Lifting himself onto his elbows, Murdoc fixes Stuart with an unflinching stare, knowing instinctively that it isn’t being returned; he pulls the bed sheet up between his legs to cover his groin, prompting Stu’s blackened eyes to near-indiscernibly snap up and meet his. Without breaking that contact, Murdoc leans closer and takes Stu’s hard cock in hand. He doesn’t bother with teasing fondles and simply tugs him off in earnest. Stuart’s barely slowing breath starts to pick up as he pumps, his hand slick with lubricant over the condom—he considers taking it off and asking Stu to make a mess of him, but he’s not especially interested in standing up to clean himself, and is even less interested in the prospect of Stu’s hand on his chest with such an ungratifying purpose. Stuart comes shortly with a harsh gasp, and Murdoc lets himself think he can really feel the warmth on his palm beneath the latex. It's something.

Stu slumps forward and braces a hand on either side of Murdoc while he catches his breath, planting his arms like skinny birch trees around his torso. After a minute he nudges at Murdoc to slide away from the center of the bed and falls to the other side, back halfway propped against the headboard. He peels the condom off and ties the end before leaning outward and dropping it into the filthy bin by his bedside, overflowing with cellophane snack wrappers and crusty off-white tissues. Murdoc nicks a cigarette and Stu’s lighter from the nightstand without offering his bedmate one of his own; Stu doesn’t ask.

The two sit side by side, still and silent save for their breathing. Murdoc keeps his head straight while he smokes and pretends to read the numerous zombie posters and weathered concert flyers preserved on his wall, but Stu’s eyes may as well be touching the outline of his groin through the thin sheet for all he can feel his staring. He’d like to cross his legs and call his attention up, but the simple action sounds like sprinting down one side of the Thames and back the other right now; he settles for glancing sidelong at him.

“Can I help you with something? Think I’ve done an awful lot for you already.”

Stu’s posture doesn’t change but his heated skin seems to go redder in patches along his throat, the line of his mouth twisting uncomfortably and his eyebrows drawing in. “I didn’t ask you to do anything.”

“Correct. You didn’t.” Murdoc’s authoritative tone seems a cruel contrast to how degrading the night’s been. He blows his smoke mock-carelessly between them. “Right, that’s sorted then. Fancy making me a Seven-and-Seven, hold the and-Seven?”

Stu wearily picks his head up at that. “Haven’t got bottle service in my bedroom, boozer.”

Murdoc bites down a smarmy remark about the little plastic ones his prescriptions come in. “Lucky for you, mine’s only a hop and a skip away. Less bark and more fetch, Kipper.”

“Am I being tipped for delivery services or will my cheque reflect the cost of down-hall travel?”

“Funny thing, I’m not quite keen on a jog at the moment.” Stu’s mouth puckers a bit to suppress his grin, but something in his look—maybe it’s the too-slight drop of his eyelids, maybe it’s the lack of arch to his brow— just isn’t as smug as it would normally be. The implication of sympathy that carries makes Murdoc want to spit. He passes the remaining half of the cigarette to Stuart, the other taking it without a word. “I’ll do you one better and just take the bottle, cheers.”

Stu turns forward as he smokes and Murdoc matches his movement, studying their outstretched legs and the strip of bedding visible between them. He notes how the lines of their bodies make an ugly uneven triangle where Murdoc’s foot meets Stuart’s shin. He doesn’t remember what to call that sort of shape, and he rolls his ankle so his foot faces inward instead. Stu lets out a long exhale, bringing the hand holding the cigarette down between them and idly letting it ash.

Awkwardly, he begins “Y’know, I’ve—I’ve been so high I couldn’t—”

“I know, I was there. More than once.” Murdoc’s gaze flicks up and down Stu’s body, his eyes lingering unsubtly on his hairline then creasing in amusement at how immediate Stu’s scowl is.

“Piss off, it was only twice.”

“Twice is more than once.”

“Pretty cocky for someone without the cock to spare.”

Murdoc bares his teeth at him in something akin to a smile, but decidedly not. “Did I leave you wanting for the money shot? Spoiled your wank material? I could be flattered.”

Stu’s mouth flattens to an unimpressed line; despite the obvious displeasure, his eyes, ever difficult to read the distance of, seem searching. “You’re not high though, are you?”

Stuart abruptly prods Murdoc’s lips apart, examining his gums, and Murdoc would shove at his bony shoulder hard enough to topple him if he didn’t so enjoy the feeling of those overlong fingers in his mouth. He half contemplates asking against the knobby intrusion if Stu’s  _sure_  he’s clean and if he’d like to pull his jaw down to check the backside of his teeth, but a fat lot of good it’ll do for his uncooperative cock right now. He doesn’t lick so much as he just mashes his tongue forward and wets the underside of his knuckles with saliva, prompting Stu's eyes to crinkle with disgust and amusement. He drags the spit down Murdoc's chin to grip it and Murdoc thinks he might kiss him, hard and brief, but he isn’t really surprised when Stu lets the moment pass.

He retreats and wipes his fingers on the comforter, settling his focus on anything except Murdoc. He brings the cigarette back up to his lips and sucks down the last of the stubby remains, overextended ash crumbling from the tip. Short plumes of smoke escape in broken rhythm from his nose, and after a moment Stuart passes him the filter to drop into the emptied can of Stella on the nightstand.

“And you’re not hammered either?” Murdoc dislikes the leading tone he’s adopted. “No more than usual?”

“M’sure you can understand why I’d like to remedy that, if you’d be so fucking kind.” Murdoc drawls, motioning for Stuart to stand. He doesn’t, much to his mounting annoyance and minor dread.

This isn’t the first time the years of liquor and speed and simply  _living_  have caught up with Murdoc. He’s no stranger to the occasional lack of payoff; he’s not even a stranger to this happening with the man sat next to him. Whether or not he’s gone above and beyond to truly _earn it_ through the decades of distending his liver, a degree of sexual shortcoming is inevitable at his age. He would think Stu’s questioning felt like an overreaction to one night of underperformance, he’d think it should be clear enough that he doesn’t plan on making a habit of it, but that isn’t really what’s eating at the other. He watches the way Stuart conspicuously rakes his fingers forward over his scalp and pulls his hair down the curve of his forehead, wider now than it’s looked in years past, and Murdoc knows him well enough to sense what’s coming.

“Maybe it’s me.”

It’s absolutely unbelievable that Stuart would think he’s got a right to ask for reassurance about his fading looks, about what a stallion and first-class lover he is, as if he’s the one in need of consolation. With indignity chained heavily about his neck  _and_  his balls, Murdoc’s weighted down as low as he’s ever been while Stuart’s asking to stand on his shoulders. It’s weak, it’s typical, and it’s a fucking joke.

Murdoc sneers. “Oh, fingers crossed.”

“Maybe you just don’t like it as much as you thought you did. I mean, maybe you’re not so…” Stuart starts uneasily, abandoning the thought and pivoting into an even more dire “I wouldn’t, y’know, I couldn’t—”

“Fuck off.” Murdoc cuts across. “It’s not about that, you fucking know it isn’t.”

Stuart frowns at him, kneejerk defensive. “You fuck off, I just—”

“M’not gonna go back on my knees to support your flimsy ego if you can’t keep your cock in me when I’m split down the goddamned middle asking you to. What good’s begging do for me _now_ , huh? Y’want my eyes all glassy while I tell you how fit you are, how much I want it? How much I want  _you?_  You know—” Murdoc falters at how he’s set himself up, his scowl only deepening. “You know that I do.”

Stuart doesn’t answer him, sitting up and leaning forward over the end of the bed to grab his discarded jacket from the floor. He fishes a little orange and white bottle out of the pocket before tossing it away again, falling back gracelessly against the headboard. Murdoc watches the tension in his grip harden under his skin, muscles tightening and tendons becoming starkly pronounced right below the surface. The backs of his hands look like sanded wood carved with wrongly-measured tools, the peaks and valleys of each knuckle too harsh, too deep. Murdoc can read the indignation in his hands like a book, but he’s content to skim and then shelve it. He doesn’t especially care if Stu thinks he’s been slighted, doesn’t care if Stu’s feeling cornered.

“You don’t get to decide what I can handle and then pout ‘til I cough enough fucking flattery up to make a comfier spot for your cock in my throat, alright? Can’t have it both ways, Stu. I told you I wanted it, point-pissing-blank.”

“Yeah, and you tell me shit on top of more shit every day, what’s any of it matter? What’s it weigh when half of what you say means fuck-all anyway?” Stuart spits, then sags against the headboard. “S’hard to take your word over...” He gestures between their laps. Murdoc’s cheek gives a twitch at that.

“Did I miss when you made telepathic contact with my arsehole?” His smile stretches venomously. “Shame, I would’ve liked to properly celebrate such a landmark event in your foreplay.”

“It’s  _my_  bloody cock in you, isn’t it? You think I can’t tell when you’re not taking it comfortably?”

“Believe it or not, comfort’s not really the foremost part of having things shoved up my arse I enjoy.”

Stu twists the white cap on his prescription bottle one way and then the other, moving it back and forth without ever applying pressure at the right moment. His whole countenance seems far away.

“You really don’t care that it hurts?” He asks quietly.

“No.” There’s no point in explaining any further than that. He knows he won’t be able to shed more than the dimmest light on the pain conversation for Stu, never has; frankly he’s not got full beams switched on the matter himself.

Stuart’s jaw tightens and he continues to fumble with the lid a few moments longer before Murdoc, whether in pity or exasperation, opens it for him.

“I don’t get that.” Stuart mumbles, shoulders squared.

Murdoc shakes two pills into his hand. “Clearly.”

Stuart pops them both into his mouth and dry swallows them, grimacing slightly. In time the line of his jaw slackens with the rest of him, shoulders loosening and the back of his hands barely smoothing to his normal bony ridges. The pieces finally slot together enough for Murdoc to see that his addiction’s taken precedence over his aging and that, intentionally or not, Stu’s quieted more of his body’s protests and disguised more of its fumbles than he knows. He waits for Stu’s dubious gaze to find his cock's outline again before begrudgingly voicing what he thought should have been obvious by this point.

“Stu. I’m not taking a fuck-tour on half-hols topped up on piss and vinegar, alright? I haven’t always got it in me.” He stops and purposefully pulls his face into a leer, giving Stu a once over. “Even when I’ve got it in me.”

Stu doesn’t quite manage a pity laugh but gives something of a pity smirk. “Think that was sharp?”

“As a club. Sobriety does terrible things to a man; fortunately, you’ve got every ability to change that.”

“You sure you wouldn’t rather have me escort you back to the care home?”

Murdoc nods toward Stu’s crotch. “I just had that up my arse for half a Midsomer Murder, you’ll be lucky if I bother getting up for a piss.”

Stu wrinkles his nose. “You really want to add pissing the bed to the list of your cock’s cock-ups tonight?”

“’Least we’d know one pipe’s working.”

Stu chuckles a little despite himself and pushes his lanky body upward into a fuller sitting position, rolling his shoulders before slouching forward and pulling one knee up. Murdoc watches Stu pointedly not watch him back. He wraps one arm around his propped leg and lets the other fall onto Murdoc’s thigh, flat pads of his fingers now sitting opposite from the shape they’d taken against his skin before. Murdoc doesn’t know how to make himself clearer, so he lays his hand on top, pressing his palm harder into his leg.

“S’just one of those things then?” Stuart’s voice is dull, sounding dissatisfied at the lack of cause, lack of purpose, lack of resolution that offers. Murdoc considers telling him to join the club.

“Just one of those things.” He parrots back, not bothering to lift his inflection any higher.

Stu nods and clears his throat as he stands, the sound thick with phlegm and unattractive. As he disappears into the bathroom, door left ajar, Murdoc can hear his clearing turn to hacking.

He stares ahead at one of the obnoxious horror posters framed and hanging on the far wall, really looking at it now; the design is retro and schlocky, the touches of red amidst the ink-blot black illustration fading to orange. It smacks of a proper Video Nasties honoree, the words  _The Living Dead at Manchester Morgue_  bracketed with scrawls of text he assumes to be Italian. He can’t make out the face of the bloke on the upper left side, obscured by the light reflecting off the protective plastic pressed to the front, and it occurs to Murdoc how unnecessary it should be to put something like that in a frame. He wonders at what age Stuart began to think he  _needed_  to justify these juvenile posters with pretentious framing, at what age pinning things directly onto the wall with thumb tacks and dry yellowing tape turned to a younger man’s game. Did he grow more conscious of it after he hit 30? Did the obligation set in closer to 40?

From the doorway Murdoc hears him spit something dense into the sink, eyes idly tracing the black borders of the frame, and he wonders if Stu's ever felt as old as he does.

Minutes later Stu emerges with aggressively neon athletic joggers sitting intentionally low to show his briefs and a hand still smoothing his sparse fringe flat to his forehead, and Murdoc thinks he has a pretty good guess.

“Right, what’s a Seven-and-Seven without the Seven, jus’ whiskey?” Stu shrugs on a clashing red button-up from his dirty laundry pile as he speaks, overwide sleeves rolled and cuffed mid-bicep like he’s planning to tuck an old cigarette pack stuffed with weed there. He leaves the front hanging open, evidently reckoning it’s a good look on him. Murdoc doesn’t correct that. “M’not going under your bed, you’ll get what I can see.”

Murdoc bites his tongue until he’s got his drink in hand, but he’s already tallying up the ways to tell him what a twat he looks like when he returns. With a terse smile he hums his agreement, not really caring what Stu brings back. He watches as Stu kicks a bit of trash and scattered papers about his messy floor before rounding the corner of the doorframe and disappearing from his sight.

Alone with his settling age and the associated aches in his lower body, Murdoc tilts his torso away from the doorway, catching slices of his reflection through the window’s slatted blinds. Gripping the sheets, he anchors his forearm to the bed as best he can and gingerly turns onto his side, aiming to lessen the strain in his back and arse. Sharp pain blossoms once again in his hips, shooting up his spine and down his legs and making him hiss as he drops his head forward. He rides out the worst of it with his eyes screwed shut, breathing like a wounded dog and biting down on the inside of his lip. He’d always been a man with a preference for pain, but it was getting a bit harder to wag his tongue at the lasting soreness when it didn’t remind him of what he’d just done, but of what he was becoming increasingly unequipped to do.

He hears Stu’s enormous flat feet slapping louder along the hallway and cracks an eye open to watch the stacked pieces of his reflection appear in the window. It’s impossible to see Stuart’s face, but he can see how he lingers in the doorframe and that hesitation is enough to yank Murdoc’s eyelids shut. Moments crawl by before he feels the mattress sink under Stuart’s weight and jostle his balance a bit. Dry lips press into the jut of his shoulder, the kiss brusque and less wanting than it could be, carrying no threat of tongue or promise of teeth. The actual skin-to-skin contact is fleeting but he can feel the heat of Stu’s breath in the aftermath, knows he’s hovering—and to Murdoc, it reeks of the sort of gesture that comes not from an extension of intimacy, but from the unburdening of pity.

A second weight dips into the mattress directly in front of him as solid warmth presses into his back, and his eyes snap open in fear that Stuart feels sorry enough to _embrace him_ , but instead they land on the bottle of brown liquor being presented to him. His eyes almost cross at the close proximity and it doesn’t really look like whiskey, but he’s grateful for the blurry tease of anything dark in hue and high in proof. He drags one hand up to grasp the neck and Stu settles back against the headboard behind him, comforting and unbearable heat fading in his body’s absence.

He drinks at the steadiest pace he can manage while lying on his side, and Stu faffs about on his phone. Sometimes the bed gives the slightest shake as he laughs at a video, sometimes synth music blares from the small ineffectual speaker, but mostly Murdoc’s left to suss out his entertainment from the sound of his slow, distracted mouth-breathing. He watches the backwards Stuart in the window, but the image his own body makes in the foreground is almost enough to motivate him to flip to his other side.

It’s only after Stu’s lost his phone in the bed, head dipped in sedative-sweetened sleep, that Murdoc is willing to set his bottle down and go through the humiliatingly cautious motions to turn toward him again. Murdoc takes in the slope of his long body, the curve of his spine; it’ll wreck his back to sleep like that, but Murdoc’s selfishly hopeful that he won’t slide or adjust his position in the night. He’d like for Stu to have to feel what he’s feeling tomorrow. He’d like for Stu to have to silently count his steps, lift and lower himself guardedly, keep hold of his slipping pride escaping through the cracks of his gritted teeth. He’d like for Stu to have to live with their age.

He lets the cruelty in his gut soothe him as he pinches Stuart’s waist, the taller man muttering sluggish protests and batting his hand away before shimmying down into the bed, settling comfortably with the window at his back.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about this one! It just felt necessary.
> 
> You can also pal around and/or scold me at tothedarkdarkseas.tumblr.com!


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